


Blood Magic

by Whreflections



Series: His Father's Son [2]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Baelfire centric, F/M, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Magic, Magical Baelfire, in other words, not overly explicit torture of children included, ships are present but background, though I suppose in this fandom that's a given, very Dark!Pan, with a focus on
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-08
Updated: 2013-10-08
Packaged: 2017-12-28 19:47:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/995829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whreflections/pseuds/Whreflections
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Of all the places he's been and all he's done, Baelfire never imagined that to save his family he'd have to truly become his father's son.  </p><p>Peter Pan, he knows that that's exactly what Bae's been all along. All magic comes with a price, even his- to find the boy he wants, he'll have to face the boy who got away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blood Magic

**Author's Note:**

> My Rumple and Bae feels were reaching that point of making me make unintelligible noises and gesture at my screen and I knew I had to write something soon, and then season 3 hit, and gave me the perfect opportunity. 
> 
> I really really should be doing so, so much homework instead of doing this but I cannot resist. I'm loving doing this, and I hope you guys enjoy it, ^^

In the quiet of the Dark Castle, Neal slept later than he’d meant to.  There was no bang and shift of furniture, no heavy boots or barking dogs like he’d been used to in New York.  Even at Granny’s there’d been the noise of Greg down the hall, of Granny and Red and God knows who else on the stairs.  In this place, silence settled thick as a cloak across the grounds.  Yesterday they hadn’t even heard any birds singing.  By the time he rolled out of bed, sunlight stretched far onto the floor. 

Neal stood slowly, patting absently at the wrinkles in his shirt and pants.  He’d worn them at least three days now; if he could find anything to fit him downstairs it might be worth it to gather a few things.  Last night he’d hovered in the doorway  of the room that should’ve been his as if on the edge of an unseen barrier, and after what had felt like nearly a half hour he still hadn’t felt ready to cross it.  From there he’d wandered not quite aimlessly, followed the feel of Rumplestiltskin’s magic through corridors and up flights of stairs until he came to the room that must have been his father’s.  It was dark, boards nailed solid across the window.  The only bright point was the glimmer of gold here and there, bright filaments woven into both the thick black quilt on his bed and the hangings around it.  A full size spinning wheel sat in stasis beside the fireplace, free of cobwebs unlike the one he’d seen turned over downstairs. 

He hadn’t been able to stomach the thought of sleeping there, either. 

A few doors down he’d found a room almost as well kept as his, this one bright and airy even in the middle of the night.  The starlight had seemed enhanced there, somehow, drifting in through an open window to settle silver on the stones.  There’d been no picture of this place in Henry’s book, but the quilt on the bed with its pattern of wild roses had given everything away.  Belle must have lived here once, after they began to know each other.  Either that or like the room downstairs it had been pieced together after the fact, structured to her specifications by magic and desperation and hands that likely shook with no one there to see. 

For a moment Neal was hesitant, but it was peaceful there and the bed looked soft and warm, enough so that he decided he could manage it.  He certainly felt rested so in that he’d made a wise choice, but it was late and long past time he got moving.  If he was going to make it to Neverland, he had a lot of work ahead of him.

He scratched at his chest, absently irritated by the bandage against his skin until his thoughts cleared enough for him to realize he might as well take it off.  His chest hadn’t hurt since he first crossed the threshold yesterday afternoon.  His fingers fumbled a little removing it, his movements still slow.  The skin beneath was smooth as glass, and he did his best to quell a flash of disappointment.  He’d always been fond of his own scars, likely a holdover from his childhood.  Rumplestiltskin preferred erasure to recovery, and even as a boy he’d never approved.  Erasing a symptom didn’t make the past disappear; the actions taken that brought about the scar remained the same whether the mark survived or not. 

He’d taken that bullet in defense of his family, and he’d do it again.   Both mattered, choice and consequence. 

Neal through the bandage to the floor, yanked his shirt fully closed so he could button it higher.  If Mulan couldn’t see, she couldn’t ask any questions.  For an instant he paused at the door, about to look for the walking stick and the pack he’d stuffed the crystal ball in before he realized both were still out at his camp on the grounds.  If Mulan and Robin had been outside, by this point they’d likely be concerned. 

“ _Shit_.” 

In response to his agitation, the door flung itself wide.  So used to living away from magic, he almost flinched.  Familiar as it felt against his skin, this place was going to take some getting used to. 

\----------

Downstairs in the Great Room, Mulan stopped her pacing only to face off against Neal, palm resting not so casually on the hilt of her sword. 

“Where have you _been_?  We checked your camp but no tracks led away toward the gate, only yours back to here but-“

“Yeah, I’m sorry about that, I uh-“  He spit the first bit out fast enough to stop her, relieved when she did actually fall quiet and leave him space to speak.  “I couldn’t sleep.  Looked around, fell asleep in a spare room.  No way to tell you; it was late.  Sorry.” 

She didn’t look forgiving. 

“We wasted time looking for you.” 

Neal ducked his head, self-consciously smoothed his ruffled hair as if that might help his case.  “ ‘m sorry.  Really.  Won’t happen again.”  The hand fell from her sword, and Neal breathed just a little deeper.  “Listen, I’m gonna have to stay here.  Hopefully it won’t take more than a few days to piece together what I need but there’s no way to be sure until I find something.  Right now I’ll I’ve got is their location and that’s no help if I can’t get out.  I know he left himself an emergency exit if he got thrown back here; I’ve just gotta find it.” 

Mulan resumed her pacing, dust stirring around her feet to whirl through the sunbeams from the high windows.  “You said Emma was in danger.” 

It wasn’t a question, but he didn’t overly feel like elaborating.  He’d spent a lot of time doing his best to block his memories of Pan out; he wasn’t quite ready to start stirring them up.  Considering the circumstances, his mind would be doing that on its own soon enough. 

“And my son.  He’s being held captive and if Emma isn’t yet, she will be.”  He could find out, if he had the nerve to look in the crystal again.  Neal cleared his throat, leaned heavy on hands he shoved down in his pockets.  “My father, too.  Guess he went after them; I don’t know.  All I know is none of them are safe, and I don’t think even dad knows exactly what he’s up against.”  It was easier to say, like that.  Something of a compromise between papa and Rumplestiltskin; one burned, but the other tasted too brittle.  “But I do.  I’d go no matter what, but the way things stand I have to.  They’re gonna need me.” 

She nodded, brisk and unsurprised.  “Then I’ll go with you.  Without Emma we might never have walked the path that led to our restoring Phillip’s soul.  I owe her a debt.” 

“Look, I appreciate it I do, and I know you’re one hell of a fighter but-“

“But I have no knowledge of Neverland?”  Mulan squared her shoulders, her fingers again caressing the hilt of her sword.  “I will learn.” 

He could’ve argued, maybe even should have, but if the story he’d heard on Earth was anything close to her own, there would be no stopping her. 

“We’re not goin’ anywhere till I can figure this mess out.” 

It wasn’t easy to see, but something in the tilt of her chin looked pleased. 

\---------------

The first day was maddeningly unproductive.  He continued to search the hidden shelves, pulling parchment down to skim over words rarely written in a language he could read.  The row of magic wands to the bottom left brimmed with undeniable power, but none of it seemed the kind of magic he needed.  These were good pieces, but for what Neal needed they were little more than trinkets, like the fine watches and gold chains a man without magic might have left in a safe.  Fine as they seemed, he knew most of these objects were the rejects- most everything of real power and use had come over with his father when the curse was enacted; he’d made sure of that. 

He searched late into the night, long after Mulan left him to patrol the grounds.  He woke up the next morning at the table in the Great Room, head pillowed on his arms and an open book beside him.  The heavy warmth of a shawl lay draped around his shoulders.  Neal shook it off, rose to his feet so fast he banged his knee on the table’s edge. 

“God _dammit_.”  Half asleep, the ache seemed even worse, throbbing under his hands as he rubbed at it.  The shawl slid slowly from the chair, pooling onto the floor.  No inanimate object had a right to look so damned disappointed. 

“You’re not doin’ me any favors.”  He could feel the change in the air as the castle listened, like heat lightning across his skin.  “I don’t want to be hovered over, alright?  Hell you should know, that was the kind of magic that drove me nuts before, just a useless waste of power and every time you did it…”

Every time, all that glitter and smoke took just a little more of his father, right before his eyes.  Rumplestiltskin had developed a habit of warning all potential takers the kind of cost magic might exact from them but he’d been pretty conveniently blind about the cost of his own. 

Exhausted, Neal let go of his knee and leaned back against the table.  If not for the blue grey light of early dawn rising back through the windows, he’d have sworn he hadn’t slept at all. 

“You think you did all this for me, but you didn’t.  Crossing worlds, maybe I can give you that one but all this?  All this is you.  You come back tellin’ me how much you’ve changed, but this place, it’s above and beyond anything you ever did before.  I’m not an idiot; I know you’re more powerful now than I ever knew but that doesn’t mean a damn thing to me.  Not really.  Certainly doesn’t change the fact that I never wanted any part of this.”   

The rest he might have said caught in his throat, easy to hold.  Nothing can take him back to an angry 14 year old like talking to his father; not even thoughts of Pan.  That voice was loud in him when he let it be, a fierce clamor that would’ve spit out, _I don’t want your magic_. 

He would’ve said it, if it had still been true. 

Neal shook his head. 

“You wanna help me, then help me.  I’m not gonna leave my son alone.”  His fingernails dug in against the table, its wood hard and unyielding.  “With that feud between you and Regina, I know you had a backup plan.  I need to know.”    

On the floor next to his pack, the walking stick rolled until it bumped up against his shoes.  It was light in his hands as he lifted it, his fingertips automatically searching out the points where the wood had been worn smooth by his father’s hands.  It had been so long since he lived with magic, long enough that for a while, he’d probably be reminding himself every time not to try too hard.  There was no push to magic; it had to flow. 

A deep breath steadied him, and he spun the stick once before giving a sharp rap to the stones beneath his feet.  The crack echoed through the Great Room, and Bae opened his eyes just in time to see the flicker of a line of light that raced along the floor towards the hall before vanishing. 

Even as he stepped forward to follow, he could feel a weight settle into his stomach.  There were undoubtedly other hidden cabinets in this castle, but for the question he’d asked, he should have known there could be only one destination. 

\-----------

By the time Neal reached the turret, he’d climbed stairs beyond his count.  He’d lost all track of how to retrace his steps, too, but it wouldn’t matter.  The castle would lead him back, and if all else failed he could find his way by retreating from the thick cover of magic that buzzed against his veins.  He should’ve known the workshop would be here, high and safe, situated to be both a lookout post and the last defense. 

Like all the other doors in the Dark Castle the one that barred entry to the turret room was thick, though he could tell little more from the distance of five steps down where he’d been forced to stop.  The barrier there held solid, firm as concrete against his palms when he leaned the stick against the wall to reach up and press.  Already he’d made use of the walking stick again, using it at the foot of the curling stairs to turn a stretch of blank wall into the door he’d needed to climb through, but it didn’t seem to be able to aid him any further.  Its strike against the wall was hollow, as ineffective as a discarded twig. 

Neal dusted his hands on the tails of his shirt before he tried again, sure the press of his bare hands against pure magic had to be the way through.  The wall gave no ground, seemed instead to lean into him in return with increasing pressure.  Before long he was forced to jerk away, the bones in his wrists sharply protesting the strain. 

He kicked out at the base of the wall, his breath hitching at the pain in his toes as his shoe bounced back. 

It didn’t make a damn bit of sense.  If this was blood magic it’d have to let him through and if it wasn’t, how else could Rumplestiltskin have restricted it to himself?  He’d heard of doors locked with magic words, sure, but that had never been the kind of magic his father went in for.  His choices were visceral rather than strictly intellectual.  He worked in blood and emotion, passion and souls. 

Neal leaned on the wall, head resting on his forearm.  He could feel the thrum of resistance. 

“Don’t tell me every door in this fuckin’ place is gonna open to me but this one.”  Downstairs, the enveloping silence had seemed warm.  Here, he nearly shivered.  “You can trust me.  I’m not a looter for God’s sakes I’m-“  He swallowed, breathed until he steadied.  “I’m your son.  His son.  Whatever; I don’t know exactly how all this works, how much of his imprint is left in what he leaves behind, but it’s me.  Baelfire.  I need you to let me in.”  He wasn’t sure what he’d expected, but the wall didn’t alter.  “I don’t believe you.  He wouldn’t lock me out.  He’s let me handle the dagger.” 

At least he _had_ , but that had been in the beginning, when the dagger was new to them, freshly cleaned but still holding the tang of the soldiers’ blood.  He’d let Bae in on everything, told him every secret he learned and hid only what he didn’t think his son should see, but he’d never locked him out.  Well, not unless he counted the portal and that wasn’t anywhere his thoughts needed to be going just now.  They’d get hung on it, stuck like a rusty nail and he couldn’t afford it just then, not the feel of his father’s fingers slipping away from his or the sly little twist in Pan’s smile as he’d hunched over him when he woke from a nightmare. 

_Don’t you see, Baelfire?  Your father never loved you.  You were a responsibility; that’s it.  Children always are.  That’s why they’re glad to be rid of us.  It’s why your father let you go.  You were too much trouble for him.  Every boy here is responsible for himself._

He’d cried as soon as he thought Pan was gone, half silenced gasps worse than any he’d given in to on the streets of London.  He was so new to Neverland then that he hadn’t realized Pan was everywhere, hadn’t expected the hands that dragged him to his feet.  The Lost Boys weren’t permitted to cry.  Crying was a show of weakness, unacceptable when they were meant to revel in their freedom. 

Neal could feel the burn of the rope around his wrists, could feel the jar of sharped rocks beneath him that rose up to trip the edges of his boots, curving just right to slice his calves and knees as he stumbled.  The sting of salt water from the bay in his wounds that first night was a pain so sharp and unlooked for that he gasped, regretted it when he tipped to the side and took on water that clogged his throat.  Pan’s laughter skipped away across the hollow walls and he was left to struggle with his bonds before he drowned, lilting murmurs cast back to Baelfire by Pan’s imagination. 

_I am sorry, but you have to learn.  You’re one of us now.  Say it, say he never loved you, say it, come on Baelfire, the water’s rising, say it, say-_

He was in the vortex, magic swirling around him and he clung to Rumplestiltskin, palm sweaty, grip failing and-

Neal struck the wall hard and the surface burned for a moment sharp as acid against his fist, giving way beneath slow and creeping like molasses.  Half amazed and half horrified Neal jerked his hand back, panting.  He moved to rub his right hand with his left only to immediately wince and shake it instead.  His skin shined pink, like a sunburn.  So, this door _did_ have a key after all.  Blood had to be a part of it, but it wasn’t enough; without magic of his own he’d never make it through. 

This time, it took more than a few seconds for his hand to heal.

It was no wonder he’d come so close.  Between the portal and Pan he probably could’ve stirred up enough rage to give him power to move the whole damn castle.  On his own at Granny’s with Henry’s book left unattended, he’d had some time to catch up on the years after his absence without any prying eyes.  Rumplestiltskin true to form was woven everywhere, a common thread between nearly each tale he found.  Here and there Neal had read, but bits of it had left bitter taste in his mouth too strong to bear.  He’d closed the book with a sharp snap on the image of Cora and his father, his hands guiding hers as he led her to open up to her hate. 

 _Fuck_ that.  He might have to do magic, but he certainly didn’t have to do it like that.  If he was going to do magic, he couldn’t even _think_ about that.  He had to clear from his mind the man who’d instructed Cora and instead remember the one who’d instructed _him_ , back in those first few months after the dagger when Bae hadn’t quite yet realized just how much their lives had changed, back when more often than not, the Dark One was still his father.  When he talked about magic to his son he never spoke of rage, only love.  Reconciling those two men into one might drive Neal crazy if he let it, but for the time being, he was going to have to separate them out.  Take the good, hide the bad, focus on his goal, try to dig back and remember what he’d only barely begun to learn before he rejected magic entirely.     

Neal paced a few steps down to clear his head, rolled his shoulders and patted down his pockets.  He’d left his wallet downstairs and for a second that felt like a loss, but he didn’t need it.  He’d looked at the picture stashed behind his driver’s license enough to have it memorized, down to the dog eared crease in the upper right corner where he’d once shoved it in too hastily at a knock on the door. 

He’d kept all five pictures from the photo strip he and Emma had taken at a booth in San Francisco, but the middle one had always been his favorite.  Somehow that camera had caught Emma at her very best, laughing hysterically at some dumbass thing he’d said, her face tucked just a little into his neck.  He kissed the top of her head as he smiled, his edges a little blurred because he was laughing too.  It’d been one hell of a day, smack in the middle of their wild zigzag through the country. 

Yeah, that should do it. 

For a minute, a tinny little voice popped up in his head, a teasing refrain of _just think of a wonderful thing; it’s the same as having wings_.  He squashed it.  Damn if he’d avoided watching that particular Disney movie for as long as he could, but Tamara-

There could be no thinking about her either. 

He had to start with Emma, her hands on the collar of his jacket as she pulled him in to lips he’d always go readily to, her little scream when he came up behind her in the hotel room fresh from the shower, his arms around her wetting her shirt and she muttered _I hate you_ against his skin but she was smiling, always smiling for him and so rarely for anyone else.  Her hands on the steering wheel, head tipped back as she sang The Rolling Stones.  The way she said _Tallahassee_ , like it was sacred, like he’d given her a gem she couldn’t stop turning over and over.   Real life, a home, all the things she’d never had and-

 _Henry_.  God, Henry, the way he folded against Neal’s chest when he was asleep like he’d done it for years, the way his eyes danced and if he looked just right Neal could see Emma in their shine and himself in their color.  The clack of swords, the crunch of feet on gravel with an interruption of _Hey dad, watch this_ and how could that apply to him, how could he be anything less than terrified that it did?

He had Rumplestiltskin’s hands clasped in his, labored breath stirring his hair and the words replayed over and over _I spent a lifetime looking for you, for a chance to say I love you_.  If Neal held on tight enough maybe he could say it back, maybe he could believe and the world wouldn’t fall away beneath his feet. 

The wall gave, the space against his hands suddenly the consistency of quicksand.  He pushed through before he could second guess it, holding his breath until he came through.  He stumbled, caught himself with one hand on the wall.  There was no sting against his palm, and he realized triumphantly that this time, he hadn’t been burned.  He had, however, left the walking stick on the other side.  With any luck, crossing the barrier would come easier and easier now that he’d done it once- now that he was there, though, he wasn’t ready to try it again just yet. 

He took the last few steps quick, still riding more of a rush than he’d like to admit from the magic used in the crossing.  The castle could sense the difference likely even better than he could, and it responded to the fine mist of his own magic around him by throwing the door open wide before he’d even reached out to it.  He shouldn’t have been pleased, and yet…

He could feel no danger in this, not when he was half sure he could still feel the ghost of Emma’s fingers against the inside of his elbow, his little boy against his side, his father’s hand in his.  For just that moment, he wasn’t conflicted.  With all he had ahead of him, it couldn’t really do much harm to enjoy it, could it? 

Inside he was met with another flight of stairs and he took those at a run, coming up into a high ceilinged room that looked utterly untouched by the curse.  If Rumplestiltskin had removed anything from his workshop, it hadn’t been much.  There were a few empty racks clearly meant to hold vials on a table to the left, but the shelves were lined with books and gadgets Neal couldn’t yet hope to understand, the tables spread with parchment and quills.  In the center, the ever present wheel caught the first golden tendrils of light through the window.  It was only now proper dawn; getting through the barrier couldn’t have taken half as long as it had seemed to. 

Neal drew his fingertips down the spine of a book, half laughing when he realized there was no dust.  Whatever protection spells governed the castle, they centered here.  His answers would have to be here, too.  Rather than taking from him, the magic seemed to have renewed his energy; the exhaustion he’d felt against the table downstairs was a distant thing. 

He might as well start with the open parchment. 

 

 

 


End file.
